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Perhaps Scaramouche felt the most human around Tartaglia, and perhaps that was the reason he took to the other Harbinger as much as he did.
Despite the extent that he hated the concept of emotional vulnerability, he could not deny that the man elicited more positive feelings from him than most people could even dream of achieving.
On the occasional (at least, Scaramouche swore on his life that it was occasional) instance that Scaramouche would find himself enveloped in the warmth of a quilt far too large for him, the faint pulsing by his ear would settle the few drifting thoughts he typically acquired at late hours of the night. It soothed his mind, but with it would come an unfamiliar ache, only furthered by the foreign arm that would inevitably drape over his form, pulling him closer.
Scaramouche knew Tartaglia was only good-intentioned, but it was in these moments that he was overcome by the throbbing desire to be human. To him, the condensation wafting off the tongue on a cold morning, or the supposed pang of hunger, was desirable, as it proved that there was something else inside him besides the overwhelming presence of empty . Because the emptiness took up space, curling in on itself to make the most of the vacant vessel it occupied, yet saturated the expanse nonetheless.
Over the years, Scaramouche had grown reluctantly familiar with it, manipulating the substance to imitate sensations unknown to him. Though, however unknown, he knew it was not genuine, could not be. Merely an emulation, a poor replication of his observations. A liquid that could not hold its form.
It wasn’t enough. He wanted oh-so desperately to feel. Vividly, overbearingly feel his innards — or lack thereof — warp and twist to accommodate this novel concept. Feel the emptiness clawing its way out like a rabid animal, so he could finally experience how to feel. Not just the rush of air into his lungs, or the resounding ache of starvation.
Above all else, he wanted a heart.
A heart that sang the songs of blood and love and adoration, as such of most human hearts. Hearts that could engulf someone whole and cradle them in veins of fondness. Perhaps it’d chant its choruses into his ears, adrenaline coursing through tendrils of vermilion, or spill his insides in a spectacular display of the self. Feeble they may be, but was Scaramouche not also? Was it not that fragility which brought about the disdain for vulnerability in the first place?
It felt immature and childish to yearn for something so out of reach, as he was only ever created to hold a Gnosis, after all. Nonetheless, he hoped that one day, he would wake up to find a rhythm in his chest as well.
—
As the result of an unknown development (Scaramouche was fully aware; He had accompanied Tartaglia on another one of his midnight escapades to keep him from causing a ruckus. Or, at least, he convinced himself it was for that reason.), Scaramouche found himself in the courtyard of Zapolyarny Palace. They began conversing. Small talk, initially, but beneath the veil of the waning moon, it evolved into something much more substantial.
(And Scaramouche doesn’t mind it.)
He pondered over his thoughts, the corners of his lips falling in a frown as he meticulously selected his next words. It wasn’t uncommon knowledge that Scaramouche was far from human, but he preferred to be sparing with information. “I’ve seen many lifetimes,” Scaramouche murmured finally, thumb tracing lines along his knuckles.
Tartaglia turned away with a breath, the angles of his features dampening in response. A slow exhale coloured the air before him a pale grey and dissipated with the breeze.
In that brief moment in time, they were no longer ‘Childe’ or ‘Balladeer’, nor were they Tartaglia or Scaramouche, for those names alluded to the grim offspring of tragedies. It alluded to foreign tampering, where the discordant harmony of bloodlust and malice slipped silken veils over judgement’s eyes. Because, the conscience took comfort in the known, for which the morbidity of their work was more familiar and dear than anything the either of them had experienced. Desensitivity morphed into a dependency, where grasping at slivers of gratification satiated them enough to uphold the facade of those titles.
Because at the end of the day, they were nothing more than a tool, a weapon of which the Tsaritsa wielded when the time came, and they should not consider themselves as anything more; valued enough to be regarded, yet ultimately disposable and exchangeable, much like a sword worn and battered after countless battles. It was common knowledge that sooner or later, they themselves would be that sword, because like many things, it’s only a matter of time. As weapons, they had no intention to crave that certain form of intimacy. A type that was far too human, too out of reach for mere cogs of the monumental machine that was war.
Yet, as outlandish as it was, they did, because foolishness was contagious. Contagious and spread far out and beyond like a plague. As a result, the yearning to lose those names, pry apart the chest to let the heart’s contents gush from a gaping wound grew profusely, however repressed it may be. The conscience also indulged in the internal conflict, and the mind took pleasure in ripping itself mercilessly to shreds. It was certainly a form of self-mutilation.
The openness brought upon the most mild discomfort, engulfing them in an atmosphere of unfamiliarity.
Because after all, they were simply themselves.
Ajax, sitting with a leg crossed over the other, hair of golden tangerine, like wisps of sky at sunset, and Kunikuzushi, who bore the weight of storms and stars in dark irises.
“That must be tough then, seeing people die all the time. Outliving them.” It was stated far too casually, as if the implication of the sheer emotional toll it had on someone hardly existed, but it was Tartaglia. Scaramouche expected that from Tartaglia. The chuckle that followed was almost inappropriate, but he paid it no mind, as the following question stole the voice from his throat.
“If you had to choose…Which was your favourite lifetime?”
The question probed the vessel’s mind in ways it had never been before, bringing forth recollections that he had strived to rid from his thoughts, as well as a fog of abnormal confusion and indecisiveness. It left him wordless, unsure of how to pursue an answer.
At the lack of a response, silence swallowed the two men in its pensive embrace. Soft blades of grass tickled the undersides of Scaramouche’s fingers and palms, tracing against the unblemished skin. It served as a reminder of reality that had dawned upon him, its presence much more apparent all of a sudden.
When his eyes met Tartaglia’s, a rare moment of vulnerability as he let himself be lost in deep blues, he saw it held the same fervour of the phthalo skies in Snezhnaya, or the dark cobalt of seas bordering Inazuma. The oceans of Tartaglia’s irises were profound, and no matter how far Scaramouche peered, he could not see the bottom nor surface. If not for the gentleness threatening to drown him in the man’s gaze, perhaps he would have been afraid.
And the ginger was smiling, for goodness sake, smiling as if Scaramouche was the only thing that mattered, that could ever garner his attention. But, when he gazed a moment longer, the glaze of melancholy became more and more noticeable.
He grimaced and turned away, clutching at his chest as if it had personally offended him. Though, the sour expression softened at a revelation. Perhaps, it was not a revelation at all, and rather an acceptance of what he had tried so hard to deny.
The small voice was almost inaudible over the silence, if it were not partially guided by the tender winds.
“This one.”
And Scaramouche swore he felt a slight, swift tempo beneath his skin.